Chapter Thirty-Two: Which Aircraft Is Best to Copy? (Part One)

No matter how delighted the five members of the project team were with their new dormitory, Yang Hui had no chance to witness it; he was, at this moment, dutifully reporting the project's progress in Director Bai’s office.

“Director, these are the preliminary technical requirements we worked out this afternoon. According to these specifications, we should be able to produce a finished product within one or two months. It’s only March now—if the airframe and control systems can keep up, we might even make it in time for this year’s Paris Air Show in June.”

The Paris–Le Bourget International Aerospace Exhibition is the world’s largest, most renowned, and oldest international aerospace show, held biennially in the early summer of odd-numbered years at Le Bourget Airport northeast of Paris. The 1983 show was particularly noteworthy, as it was destined to make headlines.

Hearing that Yang Hui aimed to participate in the Paris Air Show, the Director was impressed by the young man’s ambition. Until now, the country had never participated in such a major international airshow as an exhibitor—at most, a few staff members were sent as observers, “just to have a look.” Everyone knows what that implies.

No matter how much he wanted to laugh, the Director kept his composure.

“Very well, let me see the technical requirements you’ve recorded.”

Yang Hui handed over the meeting notes he’d compiled that afternoon, waiting for the Director to review them and raise questions.

At first, the Director was dismissive, expecting the usual flaws from newcomers. Naturally, he scrutinized the requirements with a critical eye. But as he read on, his attitude shifted; surprise and delight began to crease his face, and he ended up beaming with joy.

“These requirements are actually well-written. There are no major issues—most of the standard elements are included. For a newcomer, this is quite impressive.”

Growing more satisfied, Director Bai ignored the fact that the workday had already ended. He struck a match and lit a cigarette right there in the office, taking a long drag before pondering, then exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

Setting the notebook aside, he pointed to one item and said to Yang Hui, “Look at this point here—it’s excellent. It both saves costs and enhances versatility. Most importantly, increasing the turbine inlet temperature should be easy to achieve. Right now, we can manage 1050 degrees Celsius, but a small-thrust engine like this doesn’t need such high temperatures—seven or eight hundred at most.”

Yang Hui didn’t smoke, but there was nothing he could say about the Director’s office habits. Instead, he took the opportunity to continue the discussion.

“Yes, exactly. At first, none of us on the project team thought of this approach—it was Comrade Zhong Jianshe who proposed it. He’s very creative; the institute really ought to commend him.”

With a final, determined drag, the Director stubbed out his cigarette reluctantly.

“I do know Zhong Jianshe. His parents work in one of the base factories. When he got into university, the entire base was abuzz for days. After all, producing a college student was no easy feat—especially one who stayed in our field. Funds were tight, but the base still awarded him a special scholarship.”

Only after the Director finished did Yang Hui realize this member of the project team had such a distinguished background. He knew Zhong was a base insider, but hadn’t expected such fanfare.

“Oh, right—you just said you could complete the prototype in one or two months. Isn’t that a bit unrealistic? Which engine can be finalized that quickly?”

The Director had been mulling over Yang Hui’s two-month estimate, and the more he thought about it, the more skeptical he became.

So that’s what was troubling the Director. Yang Hui could only offer an explanation.

“I’ve calculated the timeline carefully. First, this engine’s parts won’t number in the thousands as with our current engines—definitely fewer than a hundred components. Plus, the low manufacturing cost means we can build several engines at once for testing.”

He rattled off a list of justifications: each factor would greatly shorten the development cycle. The Director listened in astonishment. In all his years, he’d never imagined an engine could be developed so quickly. His experience told him it was unlikely, but he couldn’t find a reason to refute it.

“Regardless of your reasoning, I’ll trust you this once. Just focus on getting the engine built. I’ll coordinate with the teams working on the ground control system and the airframe—they won’t hold you back.”

Director Bai had full confidence in those two teams. After a quick phone call to discuss the matter, the others readily agreed to take on the project.

“By the way, Director, how did your coordination with Institute One go? Which aircraft’s design will the model be based on?” Although Yang Hui was only responsible for the engine, as the project initiator, he had every right to be concerned about the entire project.

“We’ve made a decision. After talking with Chief Engineer Yu, we agreed to use the design of our J-7; we’ll just scale it down proportionally.”

This answer nearly floored Yang Hui. The J-7—well, it was a classic, but its looks left something to be desired. Compared with third-generation fighters, it simply didn’t measure up. For model aircraft, appearance is everything; if it’s ugly, who would want it?

With this in mind, Yang Hui realized he had to change this fatal flaw immediately. If they used the J-7, he doubted they’d sell even a handful.

“Um, Director... do you think our J-7 is... is particularly attractive?” he asked, a bit flustered, inwardly groaning.

“What do you mean? The J-7 is our main fighter jet—how can it not be attractive? It’s a beautiful aircraft—of course the model should be based on it!” The Director was shocked that Yang Hui would question the J-7’s looks.

Faced with such a strong reaction, Yang Hui dared not openly criticize the J-7’s appearance. He quickly shifted his approach.

“That’s not what I meant. I just think that foreigners mainly want something novel. Our J-7 is based on the MiG-21, and Europeans have seen that countless times. If we bring the J-7, they won’t be interested, which would hurt sales. That wouldn’t do.”

Cleverly, Yang Hui reframed his argument, and the Director began to ponder.

Suddenly, the Director’s eyes lit up, as if struck by a brilliant idea. Yang Hui, seeing this, feared trouble was brewing and braced himself for another round of persuasion.

“Yang Hui, I understand your point. You mean our J-7 lacks novelty, right? I agree. Then let’s switch—how about the J-8, or even the recently canceled J-9 from Chengdu? Foreigners definitely haven’t seen those; they’d be interested for sure.”

Hearing this, Yang Hui almost choked. The J-8’s nickname, “Airborne Handsome,” was official, but it always sounded comical. As for the J-9, its appearance was passable, but not especially eye-catching. None of the domestic aircraft designs appealed to Yang Hui.

Of course, he couldn’t say this outright, lest the Director erupt in anger. He racked his brains for a way to persuade the Director to give up on domestic airframes.

At last, inspiration struck.

“Director, you’re right—these two aircraft aren’t widely known and could work. But the thing is, the J-8 is our current main interceptor, the most advanced one. If we reveal its design, there could be a risk of leaking classified information. As for the J-9, its aerodynamic profile is the result of years of secret research—its design is top secret.”

This line of reasoning worked perfectly. For aviation professionals, secrecy is paramount; at Yang Hui’s words, the Director immediately dropped the idea of using those two aircraft designs.

After a long pause, unable to think of any suitable domestic designs, the Director finally turned to Yang Hui for his opinion.

This was the opportunity Yang Hui had been waiting for; if he didn’t seize it now, then when?